Half-empty, Half-full
by Yessica-N
Summary: Osomatsu doesn't feel anything. Karamatsu feels entirely too much. Together, they are the balance act of the century. But at least they can pick each other up, when they inevitably fall. (Part 1 of "Hey, wasn't our exit 10 miles ago?")


**When I feel bad, fictional characters suffer. So please enjoy this angsty one-shot of Oso and Kara suffering and being good bros to each other.**

 **WARNINGS: Self-hate, Self-harm, suicidal thoughts, alcohol abuse, drug abuse, vomiting and smoking.**

* * *

The night air is cold against his skin, breath leaving his mouth in little puffs of white dispersing from his lips. He needs to crane his entire body around to properly see the front of the roof, fingers clenching tightly against the upper edge of their second story window.

Karamatsu blinks several times, eyes adjusting to the darkness with practiced ease, until he can properly make out the vague form of his only older brother, legs dangling precariously off the edge.

Carefully, he climbs up as well, bare feet slipping against the wet surface but somehow managing not to fall off the damn house _yet again_.

Osomatsu barely acknowledges him, eyes staring of into a distance only he can see. But when Karamatsu sits down next to him, he wordlessly holds out his pack of cigarettes.

The younger brother huffs a thanks under his breath, taking one of the offered smokes and watching as Osomatsu pulls out his trusty lighter, swiped from their father when they were just 14 years old.

The two of them sit in silence, bodies naturally angling into each other for warmth, as the sky turns from dark blue to pitch black above them, pale stars shining dully in the distance.

Even as the cold stings their exposed hands, backs cramping against their stiff positions, they don't move. Just sit and stare as the lights dwindle slowly behind windows, people much more sane than them taking refuge between soft blankets.

"Are you okay, nii-san?" Karamatsu asks eventually, the nickname sliding easily off his tongue, now that they don't have to look each other in the face. Only two small pinpricks of red burning in the darkness.

There is a heavy pause, as if Osomatsu needs to consider the answer to such a simple question, but Karamatsu knows from experience that he truly does.

The lack of response is disconcerting none the less, and Karamatsu presses his shoulder into that of his brother, almost as if they were kids again, falling asleep propped up against each other on the car ride home.

But they aren't children anymore. The world has become too big and too real for such fancies and now they are much more like a seesaw.

And while it might be the most ridiculous analogy ever, it is also the most accurate one.

* * *

Sometimes, Osomatsu goes down.

His soul feels heavy and empty at the same time, heart pounding against his chest bone in a frail imitation of life.

He doesn't feel anything.

There is a fog in his mind and ringing in his ears and maybe he is just drowning on dry land, choking on the feelings of ineptitude and worthlessness.

He dreams about his brothers leaving him and wonders why dying can't be a little less painful.

The numbness is everywhere, making him clench his fists and dig his nails in deep, leaving small red welts that fade as he lets go. It's a nice feeling. Any feeling is nice at this point.

But it is temporary and fleeting and Osomatsu needs something more ground shaking.

Something to remind himself he is alive.

He locks the bathroom door behind him, breathing a sigh of relieve at the solitude. His nails are dull, but something in here should fit the bill.

The marks of so many previous events, some faded with time, others still angry and red and too fresh to justify his current actions, littering him like a failed Pollock painting.

He stares at the ones on his wrists, his very first exploration into the possibilities of tearing himself apart. He had been younger and dumber, not thinking of the consequences, almost getting caught because of their foolish positioning.

He has learned since then.

Razors are sharp. They lie easy in your hand and allow for perfect control, incisions as precise as if done by a master surgeon, but with the completely opposite intention.

Not to heal, but to destroy.

Osomatsu will break himself if he needs to.

Seeing his own blood makes him smile shakily, red pouring against the floor, and the pain is sharp and terrible and almost too good to be true.

It's all he can feel.

Inflicting pain on himself, cutting into the skin until he can see the tissue beneath.

But sometimes it's not enough. Sometimes, he needs to die.

Sometimes, he takes the old leather belt forgotten in the back of the little closet bellow their sink, and wraps it around his throat.

And tightens it.

Until his lungs burn from the exertion of forcing breaths. Until his vision gets dark at the edges and the room spins and he feels a tingling sensation against the back of his spine that might be the very first signs of oxygen deprivation setting in.

The lightheadedness almost makes it so he forgets the harsh reality of his world. That all his brothers are going to leave him sooner or later and he will be left to die.

Osomatsu knows he won't be alive to see their 30th birthday.

His fingers are trembling when he undoes the belt, body burning with the desire for air, head pounding and he's coughing so hard there is blood on his lips.

He feels great.

The door opens when Karamatsu lock-picks it, carefully slipping in to avoid alerting any other house guests.

He takes one look at Osomatsu, who has the audacity to smile back at him, still pouring red everywhere, and his mouth turns into a grim little line when he sets to work.

The pain flares again when his little brother moves him into an upright position, and Osomatsu can't help giggling at that, the blood loss making the entire situation seem almost hilarious.

"You're ruining your pants, Kara." He slurs, watching his blood soak into Karamatsu's jeans as the younger kneels besides him, carefully sorting through their first aid unit. He sticks out his arm dutifully so his twin can start the process of patching him up.

Karamatsu glances at his knees distractedly, face going slightly pale at the sight, but not because of his pants. Because of the amount of blood pooling below his siblings body. "It's fine, _brother_." He mumbles, trying to be gentle as he wraps the still bleeding wounds in white.

The unnecessary English makes Osomatsu giggle again. Karamatsu's painfulness really is reliable. More reliable than Osomatsu himself could ever be. He's a horrible older brother.

He doesn't realize he has started to cry until he tastes salt on his lips, burning at where he has bitten right through the soft skin, mixing with the iron flavor into something truly delightful.

He licks at it absently as he watches the pristine white of the bandages turn pink almost as fast as they are applied.

"Did I overdo it again this time?" He wonders out loud, and the humor in his voice sounds really out of place now.

"Shut up, Aniki." Karamatsu furrows his brows as he works faster, hands clammy against Osomatsu's cold skin. There is a worried little crease on his forehead, and not for the first time Osomatsu thinks he must be a terrible person.

He shouldn't do this to his brother. He should just die.

"Can you get up?" Karamatsu is desperately wiping the floor with a towel that will be completely ruined after this. Their mother will wonder at the bloodied clothes in her laundry, and they will lie that they got in a fight, like so many times before.

With a shaky nod, Osomatsu commences the laborious process of getting himself upright. Every movement hurts, and he tries to enjoy it while it lasts.

Much too soon he will be empty again. Desensitized against everything except his own vileness.

Karamatsu lays his arm over one shoulder, doing his best to support Osomatsu's weight without adding any undue strain to the still open injuries. They must look ridiculous, stumbling up the stairs and trying not to make too much noise.

Thankfully the futon is still rolled out from the previous night, a tangle of pillows and blankets where Osomatsu falls down in utter exhaustion.

"Stay with me?" He manages, lips cracked with dried blood, as Karamatsu rearranges the covers around him. His younger brother nods tightly, still looking pale and worried, but easing up now that the worst is over with.

He lays down next to him, and Osomatsu doesn't waste any time rolling over and clinging to the body besides him. His head rests against Karamatsu's chest, the nervous beating of his heart ringing in the elder's ears.

A distant reminder that he is not alone. Not yet, at least.

He shivers, pain now easing into pure discomfort, and nausea settles into his gut. Already he can feel the emptiness returning.

Karamatsu holds him, chin resting against the top of his head, and the firstborn can feel it when his brother swallows hesitatingly, as if he wants to say something but is doubting the tactfulness of it.

After a few tense seconds, Karamatsu opens his mouth anyway. "You know we'll always be here, right?" and his voice sounds hushed and frail, nothing like the false bravado normally clouding it.

Osomatsu smiles against his nightshirt. "I know." He lies.

* * *

Sometimes, Karamatsu goes down.

His eyes sting with tears he can't quite explain, mind full of hurtful words that are probably just his brothers teasing him.

Why can't he just swallow them down? Why does he choke on them, stuck in his throat like jagged edges?

They're all terrible to each other. Karamatsu is probably just too fucking pathetic to take it.

Even if their words somehow seem sharper when directed at him. Less like a joke, and more like hate, wrapping around his heart and constricting until it is all he has.

He wants to stop feeling anything.

Nobody asks him where he's going when he puts on his shoes, because why would they? He looks for a bar where nobody knows him, and goes about becoming comfortably numb.

The first gulps burn as they go down his throat, but by the time he's on his 4th drink, the world starts to blur.

Colors are fading into monotone gray and everything that was once sharp and painful has become dull and soft. The hurtful voices in his head quiet down until they are a white noise barely reaching him through the roaring headache.

And still he drinks.

Until he doesn't remember how his brothers look at him, eyes rimmed with disgust. How they ignore them, talking over him or interrupting what he is saying. How they hate him and wish he were gone.

How they probably think it would be better if he just went and died.

Sometimes it's not enough, pain buried too deep for the alcohol to reach it.

Karamatsu pulls out the orange bottle he stole from their mother. It's not surprising she has trouble sleeping, with six irresponsible dependents wreaking havoc in her house.

His fingers tremble as he takes out the pills, one for each brother that doesn't want him around, and lays them before him on the table.

With some luck, these will help him forget he has any brothers at all.

He dry swallows them one by one, ignoring the voice in the back of his mind telling him this is more than twice the recommended dose. That these meds should probably not be combined with alcohol.

The voice is smothered soon enough, a layer of drugged numbness overtaking it. His ever present self-hate stopped in its destructive tracks: He is an embarrassment to his brothers. A burden. They couldn't care less about what happens to him. They'd rather sit at home and eat pears.

Until even this fades away and Karamatsu is left feeling unreal and detached, like a dream haze.

He doesn't feel anything anymore.

And the realization makes the corners of his mouth pull up in a satisfied smirk.

He doesn't even recognize Osomatsu when his older brother finally comes to fetch him, mind racing through sedated immobility to wonder why there's suddenly a mirror in front of him.

But this face that so resembles his own doesn't look pleased. His eyes are hard, jaw clenched tight as this person gently pulls him out of his chair.

The walk home is slow, Osomatsu needing to half drag, half carry him through the dim streets, stopping beneath every lamppost to catch his breath.

Karamatsu wants to apologize. Wants to tell him not to bother and just go home already. Not to care about him.

But he's pretty sure he will start puking as soon as he opens his mouth, so he refrains.

He feels sick in his stomach, the blessed numbness now accompanied by an unsettling vertigo that makes him want to lie down on the cold pavement and never get up again.

Finally, their house appears in front of them, and the two of them stagger in, leaning against each other and looking for all intents and purposes completely wasted.

At least one of them actually is.

Osomatsu can pull off a convincing act, pretending to be similarly intoxicated as his younger brother, their remaining siblings shaking their heads in disapproval at their apparent drunkness.

With an odd pang of pride, Karamatsu considers how his only older brother is probably a better actor than him. All his brothers are better than him, in every way.

No wonder they never showed up to his drama club performances.

His hand clenches against Osomatsu's shoulder, gripping the fabric of his hoodie unpleasantly, and a weird sound makes its out of his throat, face suddenly disconcertingly pale.

Luckily, the elder immediately catches on, and they make it to the bathroom just in time for Karamatsu to start heaving.

His vomit spatters against the bowl, and the disgusting sound only prompts more, his body apparently set on completely emptying itself. Forcing to rid itself of his self-inflicted poison.

It burns in his throat, in his mouth, the feeling of bile sticking to the back of his tongue, and the taste almost has him longing for another drink.

Osomatsu is next to him, gently brushing his bangs from his face and rubbing soothing circles into his back.

Karamatsu doesn't feel like he deserves the kindness. Doesn't deserve Osomatsu taking care of him. He thinks of all those nights he woke up somewhere on the streets, lying in a pool of his own puke. He is such an embarrassment.

Hot tears start streaming down his cheeks, but his brother wipes those away too.

The gagging continues, despite nothing else coming out, stomach clenching around emptiness and forcing gastric acid from his throat.

Osomatsu leaves for an instant, and when he comes back he is pushing a cold, wet towel against his younger brother's forehead, speaking soft nonsense to calm him down.

This only prompts Karamatsu to sob harder, entire body shaking as he starts scratching restlessly at the tiny scars on the inside of his elbow.

Reminders of an even more heavy state of numbness he had promised Osomatsu to not chase after again, after his older brother found him with a needle still stuck in his arm, passed out on their bathroom floor, pupils wide and unseeing.

But he craves it now.

His skin itches and he rests his head against the cold seat of the toilet, ignoring the stench of his own barf wafting into his nose, making him want to retch all over again.

"I'm sorry." Karamatsu whispers into the ceramic. "I'm sorry. I should just die."

Osomatsu doesn't answer, because really anything he would say now would only make him sound like a hypocrite.

But he holds his brother, lets him lean against him as he trembles, and wishes there was something he could do to make this better, even as he knows there isn't.

"It's ok." He says eventually, because the silence is suffocating them both, but his voice breaks on the words. "It's ok. We don't hate you, Kara. Of course we don't hate you."

And Karamatsu could almost delude himself into thinking that was true.

* * *

And sometimes, they balance. Sometimes, they are held in position, toes barely gracing against the ground, desperate not to fall off completely.

They're not happy but they're not miserable either and that's all that really matters.

That they are both alive.

The stars have faded and there is an edge of pink on the horizon. Neither of them slept tonight.

There is ash on their jeans and Osomatsu is holding the last of their cigarettes, taking a drag before handing it over to his brother.

Sharing it like they share their pain.

Smoke curls around their heads, obscuring their vision, but they can see the first few lights turning on as people wake from restful slumber.

"I think so." Osomatsu says, taking back the smoke and extinguishing the butt against his bare palm. Karamatsu frowns disapprovingly, but doesn't comment.

He almost forgot his question, inquiry and answer divided by hours of silent thoughtfulness, but then he nods.

"I think so too."

* * *

 **Thank you for reading. Of course, I love comments!**

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